


Lipstick-smeared Lapses

by Hyoushin



Series: blue winter roses [7]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Incest, Jealous Jon Snow, Low-key, Mild Sexual Content, Mild Smut, Naughty Arya, Possessive Behavior, School Uniforms, Sibling Incest, Smutlet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-12
Updated: 2017-10-12
Packaged: 2019-01-16 14:11:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12344262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hyoushin/pseuds/Hyoushin
Summary: Perhaps he shouldn’t. She’s just curious, probably a game to her, but—But today, Jon sees her with that boy again





	Lipstick-smeared Lapses

Perhaps he shouldn’t. She’s just curious, probably a game to her, but—

But today, through a partially opened window, Jon sees her with that boy again: raven hair and blue eyes and rakish grin—the youngest from the Baratheons, if he doesn’t misremember—and the sight petrifies his feet. Jon watches how he gazes at her, with a longing that shouldn’t be there, entwined in the nuances of the boy’s body language. He can’t stop himself from dissecting what’s behind Arya’s smile, the use of that particular shade on her lips, or the tone with which she exclaims, “ _bye_ , Gendry!”

The Baratheon boy lingers for another moment, fills it with a chuckle, and turns to leave. Meanwhile, the wind rises to dishevel her chocolate hair, revealing briefly the sides of her neck. It ruffles the loose parts of her school uniform; the jacket displays her chest, the tie slaps her shoulder, the skirt uncovers a hint of pale—and from this position what he fears is that the visual information might be abrading his restraint.

Alone, and surrounded by evergreen blossoms, Arya twirls, halting right before the window to his bedroom. She stares. The glint in her eye _teases_ him while her countenance refuses to break its impassiveness. Then, she blinks, and ambles into their home.

Jon eyes the tower of books, the row of tabs on the browser, the litter of notes and papers around his desk. The decision to let himself be lured furrows his brow, tenses his shoulders. He descends the stairs, however, and pads towards the living room, encountering her there in a casual sprawl across the sofa. Arya taps out messages on her phone, seeming hypnotized by the glare of the device. Her eyes track what she writes on the screen as her thumbs move lightning-fast.

Jon tilts his head, brown curls brushing his forehead. Provocation followed by disregard, her schemes don’t always work but in this instance, with the involvement of that boy, he can’t avoid being destabilized by a quiet anger which surges to loom over his reason.

It isn’t anger by itself, though, what induces him to lay a hand on her ankle. It is barely a touch, but it does what it must, and it awakens the owner of this body. The constant _tap-tap-tap_ pauses for a few seconds only to resume as though nothing occurred. His eyes scan her legs; the black socks accent their shape, lightly compress the meat of her thigh. His fingertips skim the back of one raised calf, their presence there and not there at once. They reach her knee, a minute lapses, and then glide downward.

Jon almost smiles when his fingers pass dry fabric by and slip through the wetness coating her inner thigh. He hears a low hitch, sees her chest heave once. The heat she radiates magnetizes his want. But Jon limits to caressing as his hand vanishes entirely under her skirt. Nothing impedes his progress—and he twitches at the thought that she must have taken off her underwear earlier.

Arya abandons her chatting partner below a cushion. She gasps, the sound crashing against the fortunate stillness of their family home.

He manipulates the points that further inflame her pleasure as he cradles her sex, patiently massages first, then goes as deep as he can to slide out thereafter, his motions easy and deliberate. The unevenness of her breathing fascinates him, conveys all kinds of notions to him; he could wrench that red tie away, pop each button of her shirt, press the breasts underneath. She’d like that. So he doesn’t. Not today. Jon rests a knee on the edge of the sofa, bends over her, and closes a hand on her nape as Arya observes him, expression engulfed in the high of desire.

“Little sister,” he murmurs. He twists his hand and she seems torn between spreading her legs even wider and trapping him between them. “Got an important assignment to complete by tomorrow.”

“You’re distracting me.” He nuzzles her neck, kisses what will be a lasting bruise. Another moan falls from her scarlet mouth, piercing and unashamed. Arya arches, keeps rocking her hips, joins her hand with his to try to set the speed and pressure she wants.

Jon struggles to damp down the impulse to possess. So he halts and jerks his hand, himself, away from her pliancy. He is about to step backwards when Arya straightens, swings her legs over the sofa, and captures his own hips. The tip of her tongue darts out to trace the outline of his erection. Jon nearly shatters.

Arya looks up at him. Wide, charcoal eyes challenging him. “I can go to someone else,” she utters, stubborn.

Gently, he pushes her back. _No, you won’t._

Jon pretends he doesn’t have that certainty. Or that even if it were true, he would let her.

The impossibility reassures him, for he sees her face in everyone else. He nurses this illogical wish to give her whatever there is in him to give. But does she need that right now? He’s sure she doesn’t. He wouldn’t dare to bridle her nature either and hence he must ascertain her return—if ever she races down an opposite road. “You can. But will they satisfy you? Doubt it,” Jon states. When Arya makes to reply, he locks them both in a kiss. He licks her, nips her, savors the bittersweet from her tongue, dives in once more and swallows a womanly groan. “ _I’m_ the only one who knows _you_ ,” _in this goddamn world. But you’re too young to see that yet._

“I can take care of you after I’m done, if you’re willing to wait,” Jon proposes, ignoring how she looks still—cheeks on fire, breathing accelerated, hair wild and mussed up—he loves her like this. He denies how she must feel, having inside her a pulsating ardor that has yet to abate. He wonders not whether there is a remnant of scarlet on his lips.

He continues to wait.

Arya shrugs. “I’ve got a shitload of homework to do anyway.”

Jon places a kiss atop her head. “Good. You can bring your stuff to my room, if you’d like. I might even help you.”

“Can I really?” Arya asks. She bites her plump bottom lip, the small act underlining a more unchaste suggestion.

“Yes but no funny business,” he stresses, affecting sternness.

And her consequent _knowing_ laugh reverberates through him.

 

**Author's Note:**

> There isn't an excuse for this. I just wanted Arya in a sort of Japanese school uniform. And a Jon who isn't a complete pushover.
> 
> (Or you can blame **Museme87** for the nudging in the ~~smuttiest~~ right direction. But really tho, enormous thanks to them for the soul-boosting cheerleading!)


End file.
